


and a star to steer her by

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero





	and a star to steer her by

_**Fic: BSG: and a star to steer her by**_  
**Title:** and a star to steer her by  
**Fandom:** Battlestar Galactica (2003)  
**Characters/Pairing:** Lee Adama  
**Rating:** G  
**Spoilers:** Post-finale  
**Summary:**   
Lee's life, on a boat, after the end of everything. Anyone else having a little trouble letting go of these folks?

**Disclaimers:** I do not own anything or anyone mentioned in this fic. I am not profiting from the writing or posting of this fiction. All these characters belong to Ron D. Moore, David Eick, Sci Fi, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries. Title from John Masefield's "Sea-Fever," which is an excellent poem that I also had nothing to do with, and which, if you're so inclined, you may read [ here ](http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/27.html).

**A/N:**   
This is just something I needed to get out of my head, so I could cry and move on with my frakking life, which maybe will now be possible. Oh, who am I kidding? I still break out in spontaneous tears and cries of "Laura!" or "Bill!" or "Kara!" or "Sam!" and that may last awhile. Anyway.

Thanks to [](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/profile)[**leiascully**](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/) for crit, as per usual.

  
The water is clear today, yesterday evening's sudden squall forgotten. The sea does not have a long memory, Lee thinks, as he reaches up to adjust the sail's rigging. It's a good day for what he has meant to do for some time now, and he turns to grab his gear from the hold.

The little boat hadn't taken as long to build as he had estimated. It was a couple of years' worth of solitary slogging, maybe, but no more than that, and for the only time in his recollection he found that he was grateful for the semester of woodworking that he had once been made to endure in college. He remembered more of it than he might have supposed, but then again, it wasn't as if he didn't have the time to think about it. He lost a few weeks of work here and there to bad weather or general malaise, as he prefers to refer to the days when the grief was pressed so tightly around him that it felt like an extra layer of skin. It has been some years, now, he thinks. For awhile, he dutifully marked down every sunrise as another day, but lately he tracks the passage of time by how long his hair has grown. He considered cutting it, the first time he started at his own reflection in the cool water of a lagoon, but he's grown used to it by now, and there's no one here to care that he doesn't shave, that his skin is tan, or that his hair is fine and almost blonde.

For the first few years, the loneliness was so overwhelming that half the time he didn't expect to wake up. And then sometimes he would dream of them, and he didn't want to wake up. Now, though, he talks to them all at regular intervals. He wonders why he didn't always, but he supposes that it felt too strange, too close to the edge of what he used to consider insanity. But on a balmy, overcast afternoon when a storm rolled in, he had in desperation asked his father what to do, and the Old Man answered. Bill has talked him out of more storms than he can remember by now, the familiar rasping bass keeping his hands steady on the rudder until the sea is calm again.

Laura, for her part, constantly instructs him to figure out some sort of sunscreen solution, and gives him advice on how to cook. She has good ideas, particularly about seasoning. In another life, he thinks, they could have opened a restaurant. Sometimes he'll lay on an unfamiliar beach at night and describe it to her, the way the tables are laid out, how many customers they have. He imagines that she is digging her toes into the sand as he talks. She says she wants to hear about the people that come in, and he tells her that Saturday is always the busiest day. Saturday always brings the people he does not expect to see. Sometimes it's Dee; sometimes it's Gaeta. Even Zarek comes in now and again for the catch of the day, and they argue about politics, religion, things that don't matter. He comes in less and and less these days, though, because it's a strain for either of them to find any examples for their theories.

He talks to Sam most often when he feels that the world in all its vastness is closing in on him. In Sam he has found an unexpected brother, someone who always jollies him out of his grief. He thinks that Zak would have liked Sam. When it's unbearably hot, he asks Sam to go easy on the lighting, already, and Sam just laughs, and then the sun rolls behind a cloud and they're both off on their own new adventures.

Kara is the only one who is silent, but that's all right with him. She's here, he knows. He feels her presence in the surprise of a whispering breeze, when the wind picks up enough to push his hair past his ears, tickling as it goes. He doesn't say anything to her, he just enjoys the tenuous feeling of connection when it comes around. Lee thinks that she'll speak when she has something to say. Until then, he is content to remember, because that's what he promised to do.

It has not occurred to him to be lonely since he started these conversations. It has occurred to him that he can never go back to the living. Lee only speaks to the dead, and it no longer bothers him that they answer when he calls. He's not even sure he could hear the living, and he's less certain that he wants to. Sometimes he sees smoke off the coast of a distant shoreline, and when that happens he never hesitates to change course.

He has seen one living person since he started sailing, and that was unintentional, though it has made today possible. He had run aground on the rocky causeway of a large island, where the giant stones on the beach dwarfed his tiny vessel. He had no idea what he was going to do, and he was about to sound out Bill on the subject, when Galen Tyrol had shuffled out from behind one of the boulders. They stood, each adjusting to the physical presence of life, and then Tyrol jerked his head to the left, motioning for Lee to follow. He sat on the floor in the small hut and accepted with a nod the warm bowl of stew that Tyrol offered, and they ate without a sound, repaired the ship together in silence, and a few days later Lee was off without a word.

Laura told him that he should have at least expressed some gratitude. Bill told her that he had, and that was all they said on the subject.

He hadn't noticed the small box in the corner of the hold until he'd landed on another island, miles and years away from Tyrol. He had pried the box open and found a homemade tin of something that smelled like paint. "I think this is what she needs," said the note.

The box is still in the hold when he goes to fetch it. The paint in the tin is drying by degrees, but there's enough for what he wants to do. He grabs the tin and a couple of thick curled dried palm fronds and rolls over the side of the boat. The water is warm and the sand feels soft under his bare feet as he splashes around to starboard. It doesn't take long to accomplish his task-- it's just one word, after all-- and he steps back after a moment, inspecting his work.

_Starbuck_, the bow reads, in Lee's shaky script. It's the only thing he could have named the boat, he thinks, and the others express their agreement in their own ways. Sam says he understands, and the setting sun shines a little brighter on the water, making the metallic flakes in the paint sparkle in the dusky light. Bill doesn't say anything, just grumbles, but over the years Lee has learned the difference between a disapproving grunt and the rumble of assent, and he knows this is the latter. Laura gently inquires how he feels, now that the boat is finally finished. It is not to her that he addresses his reply.

"I've missed you," he says, and this time, Kara finally answers.


End file.
